


Curveball

by kekinkawaii



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:46:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25105672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kekinkawaii/pseuds/kekinkawaii
Summary: Every single year, without fail, Castiel was partnered with Dean Winchester for warm-up. He wondered if Singer was trying to embarrass Castiel so badly at the major juxtaposition between the two of them so that he'd just stop coming to tryouts.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 18
Kudos: 189





	Curveball

Wasn't it supposed to be cold in September?

The sun beat down from a cloudless sky. Castiel wiped another drop of sweat from where it was gathering on the back of his neck. He knew he should've worn something a little more air-drying, a little more lightweight, rather than a plain blue t-shirt and cargo shorts, but it wasn't like he particularly cared about his performance. Still, maybe he could've sucked up his pride and spite for a moment in favour for comfort. But that was never his style.

From halfway across the field, the coach blew the whistle again, blaringly loud in a way that made Castiel cringe. He pitied those stationed closer. 

"Push-ups!" Castiel heard. Immediately, the boys surrounding him dropped to the floor. Castiel took a moment to recover from the previous exercise—jogging on the spot—before doing the same. He knew better than to do as many as possible, as quick as possible, though, rather erring on the slow and steady side, because he knew that he needed to pace himself—who was he kidding. He was lazy and tired and he still had twenty Chemistry questions to complete for tonight and all he wanted to do was to have the coach glance at him for 0.2 seconds, see his utter incompetence as a football player, and cross him off the list. One more year, one more feigned apology for his father. 

When his arms began to burn, Castiel let himself slump onto the ground. He tilted his face so that the fresh-mowed grass tickled his left cheek. All the way down his line of vision, he could see row upon row of determined, sweaty students, and, walking down the line, the coach.

Whose sneakers approached gradually, then stopped inches away from Castiel's eyes.

"Castiel," came the greeting.

Castiel inhaled the clean, crisp scent of the earth and suppressed a sneeze. "Coach Singer," he replied.

"Call me Bobby," was the light response. "We've known each other for four years."

Castiel snorted. "I wouldn't call it that," he said. "Four days, maybe."

He heard the coach laugh, and felt his own lips twitch in response. Singer was the reason he had stuck with football as his patented "passion" that he presented towards his father. The swimming coach, Mrs. Greens, had coaxed and prodded and cooed about second winds, carb-loading, and finding his own truth until Castiel had wanted to drown himself in the deep end.

So now, every year since freshman year, his father made him sign up for football tryouts. And every year, without fail, Castiel put on his absolutely stellar performance of world's worst football player, and then continued performing his heart out that night during dinner at his house, where he lamented his tragedies of a competition so fierce that it weeded out his best and brightest efforts. His father would be inevitably disappointed but accept his losses, and Castiel could happily check sports tryouts off his to-do list for the year.

Castiel heard the rattle of the whistle too late, and cringed as he experienced it from point-blank range. Addendum to the ever-growing list of Reasons Why Castiel Novak Will Never Do Football: he cherishes his hearing, thank you very much.

"Alright, everybody get up!” Singer barked out from next to him. “Grab a ball from the front and a partner and start tossing it back and forth!"

Through the shuffling and scuffling and dozens of die-hard football fans sprinting for a "good" ball, Castiel rolled over so that he was looking at the clear blue sky and groaned. "So can I go home now?" he asked.

Singer scoffed. "No way, boy. You stay 'til practise is over, and that's that."

Castiel groaned again, then when it was clear Singer wasn't going to budge, he got up and patted himself down before making a big show out of looking around him. "Great, I'll just go find a partner," he said, and then, "Oh, wait."

He crossed his fingers and hoped that this time, maybe this time, he would let it go. But Singer shook his head, cupped his hands around his mouth, and bellowed towards the swarm of students, "Winchester!"

Castiel pushed himself up so that he was sitting cross-legged on the field and watched with a sinking resignation in his heart as he spotted the blond-headed boy turn their way.

"Yeah, Bobby?" Dean shouted. Someone was standing next to him. Probably his partner, soon-to-be ex-partner, because no matter how accommodating Singer was in Castiel's desperate attempts to be the worst football player in existence, he still felt the need to torture him with this. Every. Single. Year. Castiel suppressed a sigh. Why did he think this year would be any different?

His weak protest of "Coach..." was brutally cut short by the following shout of, "Novak here is your partner!"

Castiel could only watch with dread heavy on his shoulders as Dean said something to the boy next to him, thumped him on the back in a way that looked hard enough to break bones, and came jogging over.

When he was just a few feet away, Singer grabbed Castiel's shoulder and hauled him up, stumbling and blinking. "Come on, now. Don't pull that face at me, boy. He can’t be  _ that _ bad."

If only you knew, Castiel thought grimly. That wasn't the problem. That was the exact  _ opposite  _ of the problem.

Every single year, without fail, Castiel was partnered with Dean Winchester for warm-up. He wondered if Singer was trying to embarrass Castiel so badly at the major juxtaposition between the two of them so that he'd just stop coming to tryouts.

But here he was, in his final year, and here Dean Winchester was, standing in front of him and giving him a small, slightly-awkward, here-we-are-again smile. 

"Hey," Dean said. "So, guess we're partners."

Castiel gave him his best polite smile. "Guess so."

"Great." Dean rubbed the back of his neck, transferring the football into one hand. "I, uh, already have a ball. Here." He lobbed it at Castiel in an easy underhand toss.

Castiel fumbled it.

Next to them, Singer snorted indelicately. Castiel sent his sweetest smile his way. "Thanks, Coach Singer," he said.

"Not a problem. Have fun, boys." Singer tipped his baseball cap at them before sidling away, stripping behind the comfort of the company of a third and leaving only thick, stilted silence.

Dean broke it with a cough. "I'll go across the field," he said quickly, and jogged away to stand beside the meandering, staggered line of people already settling firmly into their routines, pigskins arching and twisting through the air like a stream of broken sprinklers on a sunny day.

Castiel clenched his jaw, flexed his fingers, and then sent up the one singular prayer he saved up every year for a lack of injury.

"Ready?" Dean’s voice drifted over from across the field, his figure a lithe, sturdy form in the distance. Castiel weakly waved and held a thumbs-up in response.

He watched as Dean winded up, drew his arm back, and threw. The ball flew towards him in a high arc, spiralling through the air. Castiel held his hands in front of his face and told himself that he turned tail and ran away  _ one time  _ in freshman year _ ,  _ and it was going to be the last time.

With a solid, satisfying  _ thwack!  _ it landed straight in Castiel's outstretched arms. The same way it did every single year, every single throw. As long as Castiel stayed put, Dean would do the rest.

Begrudgingly, and because it was the very last year, Castiel admitted that maybe Singer had a less sadistic, more reasonable reason for pairing him up with Dean each year.

"You know," Dean called out, jolting him from his thoughts, "you're supposed to throw the ball  _ back _ to me."

His voice was laced with amusement, and Castiel felt a flicker of embarrassment. Instead of responding, he rolled his shoulder back, gripped the football, and chucked it in the general direction of the other boy.

Which apparently, according to the arm and his football, meant a solid ten metres to the right of Dean, and about half the length it was supposed to cross.

But because Dean had been forced to endure the special hell that was Castiel's football-throwing skills for three years and counting, he was running through the field before the ball had even left Castiel's hands, and by the time it hit the ground, he was only a few feet away.

He ducked down and scooped it up. "You're winding up too much," he called out, jogging back to his spot. "Don't turn your body as much."

Castiel held his arms out again, and watched as it landed with a  _ whump!  _ in his arms. "Winding up too much," he muttered, and tried again.

This time, it went perfectly straight. The only issue was, it landed about five metres in front of Castiel where he had drilled it straight into the dirt.

"You released the ball too late," Dean shouted as Castiel made the walk of shame to pick it up.

Castiel resisted the inane urge that arose without fail every time and every year to yell something stupid back like "I released your  _ face _ too late" before taking a deep breath, cradling the football in his arms, and trying again.

After sophomore year tryouts, Castiel had dug up an old, dusted Ouija board from his attic and asked the evil entity he subsequently summoned into his home if he was cursed by the Football Gods to consistently, constantly, and magnificently suck ass at football. He didn't get a response, but trial and error had led him to prove singlehandedly without the validation of hellish spirits that, yes, he was. It was totally unfair, like every ounce of football genes had been sucked out of Castiel like a shot of jello and injected into his older brother, Michael.

For the next five minutes, Castiel proceeded to perform a highlight reel of his best hits in his film four years in the making, Reasons Why Castiel Novak Will Never Do Football (Movie Edition). Dean starred in his reoccuring role, and the rest of the football team played the awestruck and speechless audience.

Watching Dean run after yet another wild ball, Castiel was suddenly struck with the memory of when Michael disastrously tried to teach Castiel how to throw way back in Junior High.

Castiel laughed quietly to himself before returning them to their usual position, ready to catch Dean’s throw.

Michael had been  _ furious.  _ He had told his father to keep Castiel ten feet away from a football at all times. Castiel only wished he'd listened.

_ "Cas!" _

Castiel blinked, and his eyes immediately focused on the football that was zipping towards him.

He wondered why it seemed to be heading more towards his face than his hands, and then it hit him.

He came to with an overly friendly bee buzzing near his ear and a pounding spot of pain in his right temple.

"Hey, there," Castiel whispered to the bee. "I hope your day's going better than mine."

"Dude," Dean said, suddenly next to him. "Are you talking to a  _ bee?" _

Castiel cast his gaze higher until it met a large pair of concerned green eyes. "They're good conversationalists," he said weakly.

Dean ambled out a surprised laugh, and then his eyes darted across Castiel's face, landed on his right temple, and his features were quickly replaced with concern. "Are you okay?"

As he tried to push himself up with one hand, Castiel prodded at his temple with the other and winced at the ache. "I'm not sure."

Swiftly, Dean came closer. He knelt down, then placed one hand under Castiel's chin to tip his face up towards him. Being unerringly gentle, he brushed the hair back from Castiel's face so that he could get a better look at the injury.

"Looks like a nasty bruise," he murmured. "I hope it's not a concussion. Do you feel dizzy? Disoriented?"

Castiel opened his mouth, then shut it.

On second thought, he  _ did  _ feel a little dizzy. Maybe a lot. He definitely should take it easy for the rest of the day. Skip the rest of tryouts. What a shame.

He let his eyelids go heavy and then blinked them rapidly, tossing his head back and forth as if trying to shake away a lingering nausea. "A little," he said, his voice quavering, and let his eyes slip shut briefly as he brought a hand up to his head.

"Fuck," he heard Dean hiss. "Okay, okay. Just hang on, alright? BOBBY!"

Castiel didn't need to hide his wince at the shout, and Dean’s voice immediately dropped back down to a murmur. "Sorry, sorry," he said. "Can you open your eyes for me?"

With what appeared to be an act of great effort, Castiel opened his eyes.

Dean gave him a quick smile. "Alright, nice job. Now." He moved a raised index finger back and forth past Castiel's face. "Follow with your eyes," he said.

Castiel pretended to try to follow Dean’s finger for a moment before letting out a weak groan and dropping his gaze down to the grass. "I think I have a headache," he said. “I just need to lie down for a bit, maybe. Take it easy."

Dean was quiet for a moment, and then he said, “Yeah, okay. Of course.”

"You boys doin' alright?" Singer chimed in, coming near the two of them.

Dean was still tracing the bruise on Castiel’s temple with a finger, skittering across the edges and setting off tiny tingles of almost-pain. "Cas might have a concussion," he explained. 

"Does he now," Mr. Singer said, sounding way too unimpressed for Castiel's comfort.

"I got hit pretty hard on the head,” Castiel offered. “With the pointy end of the football, no less."

"Aw, man," Dean muttered. "I'm really sorry."

He looked like Castiel had just punted his puppy. "Not your fault," Castiel relented. "I wasn't paying attention. I just need to go to the office to get some ice, maybe."

Singer squinted at Castiel for a long time, long enough for Castiel to squirm, and then he let out a weary sigh. "Fine," he grunted.

"I'll go with him," Dean said immediately.

“It’s okay,” Castiel said, just as quick.

“Nah,” Dean said. “I was the one who put you there, I should at least have the decency to walk you there, yeah?”

Castiel opened his mouth to argue further, but any subsequent words died off when he saw Dean’s expression. Judging by the set of his shoulders, he had already made up his mind. 

Castiel decided that it wasn’t worth it to argue any further.

He pushed himself into a standing position, and didn’t need to fake the oncoming wave of dizziness. He’d always been prone to headrushes, but this time, he didn’t bother to suppress the groan that rose to his lips and the spots that swam in his vision.

“Shit,” he heard Dean say, and then there was an arm coming around his shoulder, strong and steady, supporting him as he swayed. “Careful, Cas.”

“I’m fine,” Castiel mumbled, feeling (inexplicable) heat rising to his cheeks at the proximity of the other boy. He shrugged off his touch—Dean’s arm withdrew after a lingering second, reluctant to leave him standing by himself, it seemed. (Which was understandable, considering Castiel’s ostensible concussion.) “Let’s go.”

Castiel wondered what Dean had to gain from this. After all, it wasn’t as if Castiel was a worthy asset to the football team, because, as mentioned earlier, star of the highlight reel of Worst Football Plays: Lawrence High Edition. Maybe he wanted a copy of Castiel’s Calculus notes. They  _ were  _ incredibly detailed, and contained some of the most important tips and tricks for Ms. Talbot’s infamous AP tests. If that was the case, Castiel thought, Dean could’ve just asked anyone in the class. He was certain the scanned pdf of them was making its rounds across the grade, anyway.

They walked all the way to the doors in thick, uncomfortable silence. Castiel was too busy considering the merits of getting on Dean’s good side via tutoring-slash-note-lending to notice that Dean was sneaking glances at him with a nervous little twist of his lips, occasionally opening his mouth only to close it yet again.

They entered the school with a blissful blast of icy, stale-smelling AC. It was only until they made it there that Dean finally spoke up, breaking the blanket of silence.

“So, uh,” he muttered. “This is your last year of tryouts, huh?” he said.

Castiel blinked, startled at the question. “Yes,” he said.

“Cool,” Dean said. “You like football, then?”

“Oh, yeah,” Castiel said, voice drenched with false excitement. “Absolutely.”

“Really?” Dean said, the sarcasm flying over his head with a whooshing sound. “But I’ve never seen you go to any of the games.”

Castiel opened his mouth to respond, and then he frowned. “How do you know?”

“Uh,” Dean said. “I dunno. Just kinda noticed, I guess.” Pause. “Michael’s your brother, right? I remember him when I was in Freshman year.”

“Yup,” Castiel said, bracing himself for the inevitable: the oncoming _ if he’s so good, why are you so shit. _

“He was kind of a dick,” Dean said. “Total stuck-up. A football snob, and believe me, I didn’t even know that could be a thing until I met him.”

Castiel did a double-take, and then, without his permission, a laugh burbled up from his chest.

“He is, though, isn’t he?” Castiel said. “Did he ever tell you about his lucky football?”

Dean’s eyes widened, his mouth splitting into a smile. “Oh, yeah! He just went on and on about it, it was awful. He stopped bringing it one day, though. Think he lost it or something.”

“Not quite,” Castiel said.

By the time he’d finished telling Dean the story of how he had hurled Michael’s lucky football directly into the path of an oncoming FedEx truck, Dean was grinning ear to ear, Castiel was gesticulating with his hands and mimicking the mannerisms of his older brother and a younger version of himself, and the tension was replaced with a loose, buzzing energy.

“So you could say I didn’t get his sports genes,” Castiel said.

“I’ll say,” Dean agreed. “I’ve been partners with you for four years now, I’m sure I could’ve figured that one out myself.”

Castiel winced. “Sorry about that,” he said. “At least it’s good cardio?”

Dean laughed lightly. “Hey, no worries.”

“I mean, this is the last year you’re forced to partner with me,” Castiel added. “And it’s already over. Thank god for small favours, right?”

When Dean didn’t respond, Castiel looked over to him.

Dean had his lips thinned into a tight little line, a pensive furrow in his eyebrows.

“Dean?” Castiel asked.

“Cas,” Dean spoke slowly, his words carefully enunciated. “You do realize that I  _ volunteer  _ to partner with you, right?”

Castiel blinked. “What?” he said intelligently.

“Why else do you think I’m always your partner?”

“I thought… But Coach Singer chooses you,” Castiel said.

“Yeah,” Dean said. “Because I  _ ask  _ him to. Every time. For four years in a row, now.”

“Oh,” Castiel said, because he didn’t know what the hell else to say.

Dean slowed his steps, then stopped walking, and turned to face Castiel. “Cas, you do realize  _ why  _ I volunteer, right?”

“Um. Am I supposed to?” Castiel asked.

Dean gave Castiel a hard look, a disbelieving glint. “You don’t mean you don’t know?”

“Enlighten me,” Castiel said.

_ “Jesus,”  _ Dean muttered, and then he shook his head, paced back and forth for a moment, and ran a hand through his short, spiky hair.

Finally, he came to a stop, and faced Castiel.

“Dean?” Castiel asked, concern in his voice.

“All this time,” Dean said, “I thought you were just being polite, but turns out you were just oblivious.”

_ “Dean,” _ Castiel said with emphasis, impatience leaching through.

“Okay,” Dean said. “Okay, okay. Uh. Just—” He ran his hands through his hair one more time, dropped it, flicked his wrists in an oddly-endearing nervous gesture. “Remember freshman year tryouts?”

How could Castiel not? “I ran into you during warmup and gave you a bloody nose.” He still had the stain on his old gym shirt because he was an idiot and washed it with warm water instead of cold.

“Yeah, well,” Dean said, and he was stammering a little, now, and why was he standing so close, and why was he coming even closer? His eyes darted all around Castiel’s face, dipping low for a second, and—no way.

“No,” Castiel breathed.

Dean froze. “No? Aw, shit, I’m sorry—” He jerked back, stumbling.

“Wait, no!” Without thinking, Castiel reached for him and grabbed a fistful of his t-shirt.

Dean paused, awkwardly twisted between getting away and staying frozen in place.

“Cas,” Dean murmured, eyes lingering on the fingers tangled in his shirt. “You said—”

“Yes,” Castiel said. 

Dean licked his lips. “Uh, I’m pretty sure you said  _ no.” _

“Do you want me to kiss you or not?”

Dean’s eyes went wide. “Yes,” he said. “Nevermind, you definitely said yes. Absolutely.”

Castiel grinned, and then leaned in to press his mouth against Dean’s, feeling Dean’s entire body soften against his, arching up towards him, threading a handful of Castiel’s hair through his fingers.

They parted with an exhale, and Castiel rested his forehead against Dean’s, their noses just barely touching.

“I don’t actually have a concussion,” Castiel said. “I just wanted to get out of practice.”

“I know,” Dean murmured. “I’ve been captain for two years now, Cas, do you really think I can’t spot someone faking it?”

Castiel stilled, then groaned. “Goddamnit.”

Dean grinned and leaned in to kiss Castiel again, quick and chaste. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m no snitch. And on second thought, I might have banged my head up a little back there, too. Might have to take the rest of the day off.”

Castiel felt the corners of his lips tugging into a smile. “Better safe than sorry,” he said.

“Of course,” Dean agreed, and the rest of his words were swallowed up and stolen away.

“You know,” Dean murmured, tracing absentminded lines into Castiel’s arm in a way that tickled just the slightest. “You are actually  _ awful  _ at football. I was wondering why you kept showing up to tryouts.”

Castiel sighed, too content in the moment to ruin it with stories of his father’s hopeless expectations. “Maybe it’s because the captain of the team is really, really cute.”

Dean snorted. Castiel turned his face into the crook of his neck and smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed this lil story. Stay safe and best wishes <33


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